Nowhere to Run
by Caerl
Summary: C&C-Generals.Updated. Co. 3033, the Orphan 33rd, holds 1st Bn's left flank against the GLA's 'Chosen Ones'. They now face a new threat. Can the 3033rd hold? R&Rs appreciated.
1. T Minus 24:00 Holding

A/N A heartfelt thank-you to _Eristarisis _for his insight and help in editing chapters 1 and 2. It's much better now. Where did you go bro?

The recruit sat beneath an improvised awning-A three meter square of canvas draped over two rocks that had tumbled down from the peak of the ridge that towered twenty meters further into the clear pre-dawn sky. This was his first assignment. After enlisting in the Global Liberation Army, he'd been sent to a camp for scouts, where his knowledge of the desert had been sharpened and he'd learned the rudiments of his craft-Spying on the invader.

His post was on a ridge in the desert in south-west Afghanistan. Running roughly from east to west, the rocky barrier overlooked a flattened flood-plain occupied by U.S. Forces: The 1st Battalion's Company 3, the 3rd of the 1st, a few kilometers to the south and east, and the 3033rd, a follow-on company, charged with securing the 1st's flank.

Below him, just out of rocket and mortar range, sat three tanks. He recognized these as Crusaders, the U.S. equivalent of the GLA's Scorpion. There were four groups of three tanks each in the compound. Each group also had two transports that were known as Humvees, bringing the total to five. His careful observation revealed that each transport carried five soldiers as well as the driver: Two soldiers carried rockets, two carried assault rifles and one carried a rifle with a long barrel-a sniper. The sniper was unexpected-They were thought to be solitary hunters. More than one sniper in the area was a concern, yet here were eight of them. His leaders back in camp should know of this.

His study of U.S. installations during training now paid off. His hand drawn map was almost complete. He had carefully drawn in the Strategy Center, a flat rectangular building with a field piece, facing west. On the west side of this building were two missile launchers with four missiles in each one. Parked on each side of the Strategy Center was one of the tank-Humvee groups. These always had someone near-Someone watching.

To his far left, to the east was a maintenance area dominated by a War Factory and Barracks. In the week he'd been here there'd been activity at the Barracks, but nothing was going on at the factory. A rubber-tired loader had a tire changed there yesterday, that was all he'd seen.

On the far side of the compound were buildings that were of special interest. The round bowl-shaped well and glassed in tower next to it told him that he was looking at the enemy's latest technology-A Particle Cannon. There were two of them built side-by-side, with a row of power stations between. The one on the east side had its bowl open, with what looked to him like an antenna extended. The western one was closed up and its tower was blackened with soot and several windows were broken. There was enough activity around it to tell him repairs were being made.

Just a little farther to the east was an Airfield, but it seemed as unused as the War Factory. Two jets were parked on the apron in front of the hangars. He hadn't seen either one fly since manning his post seven days ago. Two twin-rotor helicopters sat there as well. One had flown away to the south yesterday at noon and returned just before sunset. He dutifully noted this on his map.

Between the Particle Cannons and his lofty perch was a building he knew all too well. Its size and the nest of antennas on the roof, most prominent of all was a large radar dish, marked it as a Command Center-His enemy's heart. He'd finished his map, his day was over. Curling up under his awning, the scout slept.

* * *

The duty operator was beginning another day. He'd just settled into a comfortable seat at his station in the Command Center to begin another six-in-the-morning-to-noon watch. Radar 1 was running fine-No defects. The GLA was quiet in this sector, a strip of desert in south-western Afghanistan that extended from the Western Pass of the Great Ridge east to the boundary of the 3rd of the 1st, about fifty kilometers all told. It had been quiet all week. _No news is good news,_ the operator was in a good mood. _And the coffee was at least passable, for once..._

"Warning… Scud Storm detected… north quadrant array-signal strength is TWO,"the voice of the Electronic Intelligence Processor, intoned. Though it was pitched like a woman's voice, it carried very little warmth. The processor was designed to analyze the numerous chirps and beeps transmitted on various frequencies and identify who or what transmitted them. It was tuned to the latest known weapons systems, friend or foe.

It was especially sensitive to those used by the GLA, whose robotically controlled Scud missile used very little electronics and none that radiated a signal. When the installation, called a Scud Storm by its users, was assembled and first tested, it radiated a series of test tones that were the only warning of its existence. The ELINT processor had one disadvantage; Though it sampled signals from four directional antennas on the Command Center's roof, it could only give the operators a general direction of the missiles.

He knew the GLA missile installation was to their north. _Oh well, we're not in the rear with the gear, _the operator sighed, keying his comm-link. "FAC NET, FAC 3 0h 33rd has a weather alert at 06:19 hours, desert time. Any squawks? OVER."

"FAC Ten Oh One Six-Negative. OVER."

"FAC 3rd of the First-We got a tickle at your time on our west array-Nothing solid, though. Good luck. OVER."

"Break, this is Recon Five, One, One. OVER." The voice was barely readable, but still, it was there.

The operator looked up. _An unsolicited reply from a recon unit on a Forward Area Controller's net?_ he wondered. _That doesn't pass the smell test. _A quick check with his company database told him that 511 was a marine outfit deployed to their north. The data signature on the radio transmission checked as well. "FAC 3 Oh 33rd to Recon Five Eleven. GO, OVER."

"Five Eleven at MAP numbers Four Two by One Zero... Solid data squawk to our south. Signal strength is a number Three. Copy? OVER."

"Now we're getting somewhere," the operator said to the sergeant looking over his shoulder. He pulled up a topographical map on his display and marked the location of the Marine patrol. They were about thirty kilometers to the north, on the far side of the Great Ridge that ran roughly from the west to the east. Once again, he keyed his mike, "Five Eleven, this is 3 Oh 33rd-Roger copy. MAP numbers Four Two by One Zero. Signal is number Three. OVER."

"That's all we have for you-Gotta run, duty calls. Recon Five, One, One-Clear the net. OVER."

The operator managed a smile. _Sometimes lady luck makes an appearance. _"FAC 3 Oh 33rd-Thanks Five Eleven, good hunting. The net is clear. 3 Oh 33rd OUT."

He finished typing in his action report and entered the code to send a flash report to command. He pushed a button on the clock in his console. _Here we go... again. _The numbers 24:00 changed to 23:59 and started to count down.

* * *

The general looked up from his flash report as an aide led three officers, a colonel and two captains into the room and seated them. They represented his short chain-of-command.

The 3033rd was tasked with securing the 1st battalion's left flank. The GLA was burrowed into the mountains to the north. In the GLA command's belief that the left side of the 1st was the weaker side, they concentrated their attacks on the left-On the Orphan 33rd.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for taking time out of your busy schedules," their Commanding Officer smiled-He always started the briefings this way. "You've had a chance to read the flash, so you know why you're here. To put it bluntly: In view of the latest GLA threat-What's done? What needs to be done? Rob?"

Colonel Rob Parker looked like the university instructor and electrical engineer that he was. His constantly thoughtful expression and spare frame earned him the nick-name _Professor. _His very un-military haircut, complete with cow-lick, made him look much younger than his 55 years. Along with his duties as executive officer, XO, anything connected to the electrical grid was Col. Parker's responsibility.

"Good morning, sir, gentlemen," he stated, pausing for their replies. "The entire problem facing us, from my point of view, is _time._" He looked at each man present and continued, "Particle Uplink Cannon #1 is up and running. We can fire it any time. It's charged to…" He took a quick glance at his PDA, "96%. That's better than any other installations that I'm aware of." He smiled with pride.

"On the other hand... PC #2..." his face fell as he looked up at the ceiling. "Ever since the Rebels exploded _that bomb_..." He shook his head and seemed to be trying to find the words. "How a… _dump truck _loaded with dynamite got past…" he glared at his two captains, who avoided his gaze. He sorted through his print-outs and continued, "In the two weeks since, we've replaced the damaged half of the capacitor bank and re-aligned the mounts, but overheated connectors and blown line fuses still plague us." The table-top seemed to have captured his attention at this point.

His head came up. "Enough excuses-Thanks to Capt. Hewes's idea of alternating black-outs between missile sites and other electrical loads, we could be at 90%, give or take a point, by 05:00 tomorrow morning."

The general considered the situation his command was in. A Scud Storm was aptly named. It could launch nine high explosive or bio-toxin armed missiles that would devastate his installation. Usually they were targeted at supply dumps or defenses, but he had no idea where they were aimed. His only option was to destroy the missiles before they were launched.

To complicate matters, one Particle Cannon wasn't enough-It would take the firepower of two to finish the job. At six tomorrow morning, those nine missiles would be elevated and sent on their way. "That's cutting things a bit too close. Let's draw up a _Plan B._" They were all looking down at their Data-Links. He could almost hear their thoughts. "Capt. Hewes," he addressed his Defense Coordinator,"the sand fleas have been quiet for awhile now. If they follow their current pattern, they'll be coming sometime later today. How are we set defensively?"

"In three short words, sir, _we are ready,_" he rumbled in his room filling baritone. Captain Raymond Hewes was a huge man, though no one could call him fat, at least not to his face. His demeanor belied his presence-There wasn't a mean bone in the man's body. Everyone seated at the table knew that. Ray's drinking buddy, Captain 'Colonel' Burton, seated directly across the table, often told anyone that would listen that 'Ray doesn't say much, but looking like that, he doesn't have to_._' Combat had forged a strong friendship between the two of them.

Capt. Hewes put on a pair of half-glasses for reading and continued, "We've had to tighten our belts-I don't need to tell you that. We've pared down our tank platoons from five to four and now, to three tanks each. That works well with Paladins, but Crusaders are more vulnerable to missiles, and Crusaders are what _we_ have." It looked like he wanted to throw up his hands in disgust, but he refrained. "Out of four platoons of three units, the third unit in each platoon is just a tank in name only, a cannon carriage. We can't get engines for them-They're running on their Little Joes now. That's just enough power for traversing the turret and firing the gun, with maybe a comm-radio thrown in… sorry they have rifles-It's the Paladins that have smooth-bore guns," he said, winking at Burton across the table.

"God bless the hind-teat '33rd," Burton jested, shaking his head sadly. "You still can't get anyone to trade that 120mm Paladin ammo they sent us by mistake, huh?" he asked his friend. He got a chuckle from all save the stoic Col. Parker.

"Nobody has any 105mm Crusader rounds just laying around-That's the problem," he mused. "It's now mostly the National Guard that uses it for training," he sighed. Hewes looked up from his notes, removed his spectacles, and said, "Sir, we can move the weak sisters around if we have to and there's enough good men who can shoot straight to crew them. I don't like repeating myself, but we are _ready_, _Sir._"

Their Commanding Officer sat still for a moment, letting the silence draw out. "Well, _Colonel_ Burton, don't keep us in suspense. What's going on in what you call a mind? Hmm?" He'd heard that Burton was from Kentucky, hence the Colonel moniker.

"Heh, _Hiram's _Dog-and-Pony Show… step right up," Hewes quipped, rolling his eyes. He was only one of a few allowed to use Burton's given name.

Burton's glare would melt hardened steel. "In spite of _her _whining and crying, _mother _Hewes assures me that _we're ready._ I feel sooo much better now." Capt. Burton said as he stood and plugged a memory module into the display mounted on the wall. A two-dimensional map of the area and its installations appeared on the screen.

The General smiled at the good-natured banter. In spite of their childish behavior, these two were the best at their chosen profession-Making war. Col. Parker wore a frown; The lack of discipline in these two appalled him. His CO was no better.

Capt. Burton said stiffly, "_Captain _Hewes, pay attention, please. The GLA will need to be briefed as well. No sense leaving them out." It was as if he couldn't resist antagonizing Parker by needling his friend.

Satisfied with Parker's dour expression, Burton continued, "First things first-We need to locate the missile installation." He switched his pointer on, focused the dot, and pointed at the bottom-right corner of the map. "3rd of the 1st may have heard a squawk to their west." He swept the dot up to the left. "It was to _our _north... _here._" The red dot crossed the ridge to their north.

He pointed to the mountainous ridge running roughly west-to-east, cutting the map's area into two equal parts to the north and south. "That Marine Recon report, if we can trust it, placed a solid squawk... from here," he pointed to the spot on the northern half of the map and drew it south to where the ridge was, "to here. Using the signal strength estimations… 2/5ths from here and 3/5ths from here… places it in _this _area." He drew an imaginary circle with the pointer and stopped at the center. "My money's on it being…" He leaned over and read off the co-ordinates, "45 by 15 should be the place. Any takers?" he asked the room.

"I'll take it easy on ya," Hewes drawled. "If it's not right there, you pay for dinner with all the trimmings... _including _the bar tab for both of us _and _our dates. The O-club, next R&R?" he asked with raised eyebrow.

"You're _on._ I'll spend _your_ money," Burton assured him.

Col. Parker stood up to leave. "Sir, if you don't need me..." he'd apparently had enough.

"Have a seat, Rob," the general invited him, "We're just finishing up." After his flustered XO sat back down, he said with a stern look for his captains, "let's wrap it up, Capt. Burton. I'll be willing to bet you have a plan already taking form, right?"

"Yes sir," he fired right back. "With forces I already have, we can leave at noon for a little sneak-and-peek_._ Two platoons-Five Rangers and five Pathfinders will go with me. With luck and maybe some air support?" he paused to let his request hang.

The general was paying attention or maybe he knew Burton too well; "Done captain, our last two Raptors, designated Griffons 1 and _2_, are at your disposal. Check with FAC_-_Fly for comm-link details. They can give you and your troops transport as well."

Burton turned back from the door. "Sir, when we find it, we'll attack it. If you can have the wonks at PC #1 ready, they can fire on the armored dome in the center and that will be the end of that." He dusted his hands, winked at Parker, and continued, "We'll be in touch on sneak-and-peek net. With your leave sir, we'll be shoving off." He was eager to be on his way.

"That's all, gentlemen... dis_missed_." It was just a formality. "Good hunting, men."

Hewes caught up with him at the door and grabbed an arm. "Don't get yourself killed, hero, I intend to collect."

"Uh-huh," Burton grunted, pulling roughly from his grasp. "In your _dreams_," he spat.

* * *

The Raptor, a multi-purpose fighter jet with hard points set up for air-to-surface or air-to-air missiles loafed along at just over its stall speed. Its long service life was told in the faded, sand blasted appearance of its tan top-coat and pale blue underpinning. Its twin Rolls Royce Merlin demonstrator turbofan engines showed their hours by the smoke trail they left behind. Still, this bird could stand on her tail if she had to. It circled the ridge for what seemed like the tenth time with nothing sighted. Its pilot, Lieutenant Claude 'Hopper' Martin, was about to write this little jaunt off as just another bug hunt when his ELINT receiver warbled. Continuing his long banking turn, he switched on the audio to listen in. It was an obvious data stream and could be what they were looking for.

He flattened his turn with a touch of stick and rudder and headed to the north-west, watching as the signal strength meter slowly climbed, peaked, and then started to decrease as he turned the fighter's nose past the signal's datum point. Centering up on the signal showed him nothing down below but the most prominent feature in this south-western desert wasteland-A sharp ridge of eroded bedrock. His fuel was getting low-He'd have to turn for home before too long.

He'd just started his turn for home when the sharp, rapid beeping of his launch detector slowed time down to a crawl. He instinctively reefed the heavy fighter around to his right, dropping the nose in the process. A missile streaked by his canopy on the right in a lucky near-miss. The other two missiles did not miss. One impacted at the inlet to the portside engine, totaling his generator and hydraulic controls. The other got his rudder and what was left of his starboard engine. The turbines oversped, howling as if in agony, until their governors cut the fuel. He didn't need to activate his fire-supression system, that was triggered at the first hit. The insistent beeps turned into a shrill scream of alarms as his plane died around him. Part of Lt. Martin died with it.

Before giving up, he keyed his microphone. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday-Griffon 2 is HIT. I'm going DOWN." His last radio call was punctuated with a sharp blast as he fired his ejector seat.

* * *

He was rocking gently under his parachute canopy, watching his plane's final landing. Flames trailed from behind as it arrowed directly at the stinger sight that had killed it. It wiped out the site in a cloud of flaming debris before continuing on to impact on the floor of the valley beyond.

"_Bulls-eye_, that's my _girl_," Hopper shouted with an evil childish glee. His plane had died, sure, but she took out her revenge on their enemy too. One less sand flea stinger site to worry about.

He took one last look at his lost plane-Then he looked again. The floor of the valley looked like it had been peeled back by the crashing wreckage. The concrete of the partially exposed enclosure was lighter in color than the desert around it, though local sand and rock had been mixed in when it was poured. Three long slots radiated out from a central hub. Inside each slot was a curved cradle. Two of the three cradles that he could see held a missile capped with a green and white striped nose-cone. He knew that the complete installation could hold nine missiles.

_ Nine Scud missiles,_ his mind recoiled. Lt. Martin had a consolation-Just a small one; He'd lost his ride, but he wasn't going home empty-handed. He knew where the Scuds were. Now, all he had to do was get home-The GLA would be scouring the desert for a downed pilot. The radio data-burst his ejection had triggered should bring a Combat-Search and Rescue Chinook along shortly. He had a good chance though, he was working with Captain Burton and his commandos, who were looking for the Scuds as well. Crossing his fingers, he braced for a hard landing…


	2. T Minus 12:00 Counting

A/N Thanks again to _Eristarisis _for dragging me into the 21st century.

He was cornered. The ferocity that his ejector seat endured as it was shot to pieces told him the GLA was not in the mood to take prisoners. The rock he hid behind was cool to the touch-An anomaly in this hot desert climate. Feeling a cool draft coming from behind his rock, he thought, _cave_, and started digging, setting smaller rocks aside as quietly as he could.

He wasn't really sure where this narrow tunnel led to, but it was his only way out-He had to move forward or the GLA patrol would surely kill him.

Behind him, the Quad-Cannon, nothing more than an outdated four-barreled anti-aircraft gun mounted on an equally outdated 2½ ton farm truck, hammered away at the helicopter that had saved his life.

Bearing the blue stripes of the 3033rd, his own outfit, it had suddenly appeared from over the ridge to the north, hovered briefly as if to decide whether to pick him up or not, and then bolted to the west, drawing the GLA patrol away. If he got away, the first thing he would do is shake the pilot's hand and buy enough rounds to get them both drunk-The tail number _74_ was etched in his memory.

With his armored flashlight in one hand and a military-issue Smith & Wesson 38 Special revolver in the other, he crawled on until the ache in his arms and legs forced him to lay on his back and rest. If this tunnel ran all the way through the ridge, he was about two-thirds of the way to the other side, in his estimation.

The beam of his flashlight revealed a wide space just ahead. Before he got moving again the light showed him a smiley face drawn on the roof of the tunnel in blue chalk-Pathfinders had been this way recently. An arrow beside the mark pointed back the way he'd come. Unzipping a breast pocket of his flight suit, he took out a black enameled cylinder about the size of his thumb. It resembled the tiny AAA-cell flashlight it once was with one exception; Instead of a bulb, it was fitted with an Ultra-violet Light-Emitting-Diode. Twisting the sleeve fitted to one end of the UV flashlight revealed a message; **DA ORPHAN 33** With renewed confidence, he got moving again.

The tunnel had widened some and the light here was bright enough that he could stow his flashlight. Pausing at the tunnel's end, he could see that it ended in a cave large enough to stand up in. Sunlight leaking in from the far side revealed that no one was here. Crates of what looked like rations and ammunition lined the wall to the right.

He'd managed to crawl half-way out when the revolver was kicked from his hand and he was pinned roughly to the stone floor. "Don't move," a gravelly voice ordered in his right ear. "Animal, veg'table, or min'ral?" it inquired.

He groaned. "Animal... GRRR!," he growled the recognition phrase. _Who thinks this crap up?_ He wondered.

The pressure on his back disappeared. "Sorry, _sir_," the voice apologized. "Jimmy, gimme a hand here, huh?" A shadow separated from the wall and helped the pilot to his feet. "Run fetch the colonel-will ya?" he said, turning back. "_Sir, _let's get a look at those scratches. They don't look like they need stitching," he opened a med-kit and indicated a crate in the middle of the chamber.

"Sure corporal, 'be back in a flash," he promised. Jimmy's boots crunched gravel as he left the cave.

"Corporal… you don't look much like a soldier," he winced as a swab was applied to a cut on his face.

"Nossir," the soldier agreed. "The colonel, he's let us… _go native_, I guess you cud say," he drawled. "I'm not crazy about it-Makes me itch. But all I know is them sand fleas jest walk on by without lookin'. That's real _smart_ in my book, _sir_."

"And you are… a soldier, corporal?"

He looked at the pilot for a moment and said, "Nossir, me an' Jimmy are snipers- Pathfinders, _sir. _Jimmy, he's an expert marksman_. _Me…" he poked himself in the chest with a thumb, "I'm a master marksman, _sir._ Jimmy's bagged fifty-three desert rats-I have personally sent one hundred and sixty one to the promised land, _sir_. And not a one has heard Delbert Avery's Springfield '03A4, _sir._" He held out his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Corporal Delbert Avery-I'm Lieutenant Claude Martin." They shook hands.

* * *

Captain Burton didn't look very military either. His dun-colored robes made him look like a desert tribesman. His fierce demeanor didn't diminish the impression. "So, you're telling me we're minus an asset and now we have to baby-sit _you _as well." He raised an eyebrow. "Why should I be happy about that, _Lieutenant_?"

"Well, sir," the pilot replied, standing his ground. "In this desert war chess-game, I'd trade a knight for a queen any day-Wouldn't you, sir?"

The captain remained silent while exchanging a look with a pale-faced tribesman standing beside him. Burton's stern look told the pilot, 'This better be good.'

"_Sir_, I don't believe that I… _we _would have found the Scud site if those stingers hadn't shot me down." He now had the captain and the tribesman's attention. "On the way down, my bird crashed into the stinger site and snagged a net covering the Scuds…"

"Were the missiles standing?" Burton interrupted him.

"No _sir_," he replied, "from that angle, I could only see three cradles-Two had missiles in them, while one was empty."

"Then they're still loading missiles," the tribesman, who was a lieutenant, pointed out. "We still have time."

The captain pulled out a Digital Map Unit, DMU, and set it on the ammo crates stacked near the cave's far wall. He deftly stepped through its menu and looked up. "OK _lieutenant_, you're off the hook with me." He gave a knowing look to the tribesman. "Now the review board, _they're_ another matter."

"Right, _Sir, _all I have to do is survive _and _get back to face the music." The pilot couldn't help making a face-He'd lost another plane earlier in this war with the GLA.

Burton's face brightened at the though of tangling with the establishment. "If you need me to… testify, just let me know-I'll be there. Now…" he looked down at the DMU's display, "we're right _here_, lieutenant, answer just one question and you'll win my loyalty; Where is the Scud site?"

* * *

The corporal didn't like standing a perimeter watch, but he endured it all the same. He never knew what would happen on the line. It was mostly hours of boredom punctuated by a few minutes of intense action. Most of the time it was worth the wait, though.

"…Fifty caliber Big Mucking Gun," his spotter mused aloud.

"What say?" he didn't know what Jimmy was talking about.

"Twelve point seben by ninety-nine millimeter-The Barrett 'Light Fifty'," Jimmy said dreamily.

_Here we go again_, Del couldn't help himself. "Brothers McMillan, 87R. The _only _way ta fly," he retorted.

"Nope," it was Jimmy's turn. "Twelve round mag versus five?" he asked, incredulous.

"Huh," the corporal grunted. "If I'da wanted to hump an extra fifteen pounds of ammo, I'da joined the artil'ry." He looked across at Jimmy and said, "an extra seben rounds is no good when the sand binds up all that self-stuffin' machin'ry, anyways."

He gave up. It was useless to convince Del that modern rifles don't sacrifice speed for reliability. "Jest think, tho', no matter the rifle, .50BMG would make you king-of-the-hill. It's effective at up to sixteen-hundred meters." His voice was dreamy again.

"You wanna bet on our chances of ever gettin' one?" he asked Jimmy. That usually ended the argument.

"Ya never know," the spotter was ready with an answer. "1st Pathfinder Platoon , 3rd of the 1st got one. They're not so far away."

"And where are they Jimmy?" Del shot back. "In the far eastern desert, shootin' at tanks or some such nonsense. You wanna do that?" _Case closed_, he smiled.

"But still…" he said with a far-away look.

They sat in companionable silence, watching the plain to their north for GLA activity.

"_Damn,_ Jimmy, all I got left is bar-b-que. You got any plain?" he asked, breaking the silence, holding up a can of Vienna sausages. Plain went better with his favorite; Mustard relish.

"Yeah, I do," his spotter grinned. "But it'll cost ya two-fer-one." He sat back to watch his friend's temper burn.

The expected explosion came; "Like _hell_-Your mama must've been a _damned _sand flea, ya cheap crook. One-for-one…Hand 'er over, NOW, Jimmy." He stared hard at his friend and finished, "stop playin'."

The trade was like a cold-war prisoner exchange, with Jimmy's mindless grin never changing. He knew just how far he could push his friend.

Corporal Avery pulled the ring-tab and folded the can's lid to make an improvised spoon. Two mustard-with-relish packets on the can's contents, along with a packet of cheese-crackers made up his cold-ration noon meal. "Wake up, Jimmy. GLA Technical at your eleven-thirty," he drawled.

"I see it." Jimmy looked through his spotting scope at the GLA's equivalent to the U.S. Humvee. "It's one of them Japanese pick-up trucks innit?" He wasn't sure.

"Naw, it ain't," the corporal squinted to get a better look. "It's a British Ford-Boxy fenders and the cab's shaped funny. It's got a 30-caliber mounted in the bed, too. It looks almost like an M-60 machine gun-Where'd they get that?"

His spotter looked up from his scope and shook his head. He didn't know. "I see the driver... where's the gunner?"

"He's at your ten-o'clock, takin' a leak," Avery said around a mouthful of cheese-cracker. "Watch 'im, that'll give you an idea how he handles that M-60," he snickered, spraying cracker crumbs.

Jimmy ignored the gibe. "You gonna shoot em both?" He was doubtful that his friend was fast enough-His '03 was a bolt gun. The spotter knew that his ex-Marine M-25 could do the job, though. Pop-pop, scratch two sand fleas.

"Naw... _think_ about it," the corporal said, watching the truck. "If you wait 'til he gets rollin', he'll wreck the truck and prob'ly kill the gunner as well." He raised three fingers. "_Three _kills, you gotta count the vehicle, with _one _bullet... that, my brother, is why _I'm _a _corporal _and _you're _still a _private. _With that, he turned and shouldered his rifle.

As the truck started to move, his rifle kicked back with little more than the sound of a hearty hand-clap. The suppressor threaded onto the end of the barrel would be good for at least twenty more shots before it would need replacing.

It was the end of the line for the Technical-Without a driver, it accelerated to the bottom of a ravine, where it overturned and burst into flames. The fireball rolled away on the hot desert wind that swept across their position.

Corporal Avery licked the stub of pencil he carried and made a mark in his notebook. "One hundred sixty two, three, _and _four. When I get to two hundred, you'll lose the bet, James," he ribbed his spotter one more time. He stowed the pencil and pad in a shirt pocket and buttoned the flap.

Jimmy got to his feet. "Vehicles do _not _count," he insisted, turning his back.

* * *

The duty-operator at the command center set his coffee cup down on the table and looked closer at the screen. Although the display was fuzzy, he'd noticed movement on the left side, just below the center. That represented the area farthest west covered by the network of camera drones deployed in their Area of Operations (AO).

Touching up the brightness and contrast revealed three GLA mobile units-Two Technicals were leading a farm tractor with an armored cab and two large containers bolted to the frame just forward of its large rear wheels-A Toxin Tractor. It could be carrying anything from chlorine, to ammonia, to nerve gas or any number of other bio-toxins, anthrax included.

He marveled at how clear the images were from the new drone that covered the Western Pass. _Too bad we can't replace them all_, he lamented. He keyed his microphone and called; "Alert One, this FAC 3 Oh 33rd. OVER."

"First Crusader-CHARLIE is Alert One. GO. OVER."

"Alert One, BANDITS, number three, at MAP five zero by two five, heading east at speed three zero. Priority is a one. COPY? OVER."

"Alert One-ROGER. COPY. Three BANDITS at MAP five zero by two five. First Platoon minus ECHO rolling. First Crusader-CHARLIE Officer-In-Charge is monitoring-OUT."

Looking out his window, the duty-operator could see two Humvees followed closely by two of first platoon's tanks heading west leaving a cloud of blue exhaust mixed with desert dust that would settle on the unit they had to leave behind-Would unit ECHO be the lucky one?

* * *

They'd stopped at an outcropping of the mountain ridge that blocked a direct view of the Western Pass. Two Pathfinders that also served as TOW-gunners in the lead Humvees were sent up a narrow path that led to a high vantage point overlooking the pass that gave access to the north. The clearing there was called the Buzzard's Nest-Other snipers had used it to their advantage.

The GLA patrol had stopped when they reached level ground after descending the steep track that was known as the Western Pass. A knot of Rebel soldiers were gathered around the tractor, while the driver appeared to be tinkering futilely with its engine. Several attempts to start it resulted in numerous sharp reports as it backfired, ran choppily, emitted clouds of blue smoke, then stalled.

"Looks like a draw-play would work here," ALFA's driver opined as he lowered his field glasses. "That is, if they ever get that junk to run." His Humvee had the distinction of being the only one in the 3033rd's AO that was painted olive drab. All the others were a light tan color known as desert sand. Wherever 1st Crusader Platoon's unit ALFA went, the GLA were sure to follow. He looked at unit CHARLIE's commander, Lieutenant Jackson, who was the OIC here and asked, "What do you think Loo?"

Jackson, after taking a quick look around the rock wall, turned back to the group leaning on the Green Bean's fenders. "I like it. We'll defilade CHARLIE and DELTA by backing them in _here._ Their fire will overlap from _here_ to _here._" He indicated where he wanted his tanks placed. He pointed at the Humvees. "ALFA and BRAVO will rush their position and then run like hell, drawing them into range." He winked at DELTA's commander, "Maybe they won't need our help. It's only two ragged pick-ups and a farm tractor…" He let his challenge hang there.

ALFA's driver had been around this block a time or two. "_Sir,_ if you could just run over them… flatten them." It was his turn to wink at BRAVO's driver. "We wouldn't worry about those friendly fire reports you tankers are famous for." He jumped into The 'Bean and slammed the door. "Button it up," he shouted. "This looks like a good run." After making sure his Missile Defenders were in place, standing in the roof hatches, he led BRAVO around the wall and into battle, kicking up two plumes of desert sand in the process.

* * *

The bullet that almost killed him hit the rock beside his head and howled away as if disappointed. The sting to the right side of his face forced him to duck down behind the rocks. "Jimmy, get the hell _down,_ son," he called across the clearing.

Jimmy didn't get down. He was firing at something downrange. Two bullets impacted near where he sat, throwing chips of rock around. The time between shots told the corporal that his spotter was locked in a duel with another sniper. Private James P. McMahon, don't call him Phineas-He'll fight you, was in a perfect seated firing position. In spite of the death that sparked and buzzed around him, he calmly squeezed off a perfect shot, waited a heartbeat, shifted his aim, and then followed up with another.

Del was about to pop up and join in the fight, when he heard a shout; "Gotcha, cock-_knocker._" Jimmy jumped up, vaulted over the rock where he'd rested his rifle, and began to carefully work his way down-slope.

"Stay _down,_ ya damned fool," Del cursed and stood up. He quickly scanned downrange, sweeping his rifle's scope back and forth-Nothing moved. Knowing his partner's need for back-up, he set his rifle aside and snatched up their reserve weapon-A grenade launcher loaded with a 40mm shot-shell. Soldiers who carried this single-shot launcher affectionately called it a bloop-gun.

While picking his way to the bottom of the slope, he spotted Jimmy resting his rifle on a rock, pointing it at a GLA Technical parked close to where the slope leveled out. Two soldiers were loading a wounded man into the cab through the passenger-side door.

He cursed again, wondering why Jimmy wasn't firing on the men. He broke open the bloop-gun, plucked out the shot-shell, and fumbled a grenade from the bandoleer draped over his shoulder. Maybe his spotter was hurt-He didn't know.

The GLA gunner mounted up and swung his weapon up in their direction. Jimmy wasn't hurt-He was really on the ball. His carefully aimed shot took the gunner in the throat, knocking him sprawling back onto the roof of the cab. His body slid into the bed behind the useless machine gun.

The truck lurched forward with a roar of its un-muffled engine just as Avery triggered the launcher. It ran out from under his grenade, which exploded harmlessly, peppering the surrounding rock with gravel and hot metal.

"Looks like ya missed 'er, Del," Jimmy's grin was from ear-to-ear. "But he didn't miss _you._" He pointed to the blood on the corporal's face.

"It's jest a scratch." He waved it away. "What 'cha got there?" he asked, looking at the rifle Jimmy was holding-It wasn't from any U.S. Arsenal.

"It's a Dragunov SVD. My guess… it was _him…_ Kell." Jimmy said, handling the rifle reverently. Jarman Kell was a legend among the GLA snipers. He used the Russian SVD and he never missed, until now. The spotter shrugged. "The scope's wrecked. Lucky shot, I guess."

"Huh, you stopped the fight, no _luck _in that. Looks like damned good shootin' to me." He bent over and picked up an unfired round, and looked at the head-stamp. "Seben point six two, by fifty four, R." He tucked it into a shirt pocket and said; "That's luck, Jimmy-me-boy. This's the one with _my_ name on it and he didn't get a chance to fire it. Thanks to _you_, my friend."

"We better move, the sand fleas'll be here shortly with all that noise we made," he started back up the slope with his captured rifle as a prize.

"Right," Del agreed. "We'll move a couple klicks west and set up. Would you mind getting the box of bloop ammo, Jimmy?" he asked.

"No prob," he answered, picking his way through the scattered boulders. _It's changed_, he marveled at his new-found respect, _Del never asked me before..._ _he always jest told me._

* * *

The Buzzard's Nest gave them a real bird's-eye view of the Western Pass. This clearing was a necessity because the GLA shot down every camera drone sent up to watch the pass directly.

Corporal Rachel 'Maggy's Drawers' Magliore lowered her field glasses and stood up, stretching her stiff arms and legs. "Take the watch awhile, will ya Tony? I gotta go," she said, crossing her knees in a comical attempt to get him to loosen up. He looked like he'd jump ten feet if she shouted 'Boo'. She had the unenviable task of breaking in a new spotter. Though green, he'd had high marks during training. After getting his wrinkles ironed out, she was sure he'd be fine. _Tom, why'd you leave me?_ She mourned the loss of her last partner.

Her urge got her moving. "I'll be right back-Don't you go anywhere." She scooted up the path.

He hadn't really gotten settled in when movement on the northern road caught his eye. After centering his spotting scope on the road, he turned the focus knob and the image sharpened. They were tanks-GLA armor to be sure, but he'd never seen tanks like these.

To the south, he could see ALFA and BRAVO cleaning up after their skirmish with the GLA patrol. There were bodies to be buried, and ALFA was towing the disabled Toxin Tractor to a pile of wrecked vehicles to the east. The construction gang would dispose of it when time allowed.

"Hey corporal," he called to the returning Pathfinder, "these tanks look like Marauders, but they're carrying two guns. Am I hallucinating?"

"No...They're Marauders that have been fitted with twin smooth-bore guns. Their armor makes them very tough-the guns make them very dangerous. The GLA only use them in a big push." Rachel lowered her binoculars after taking a long look at the GLA armor that was backing in on each side of the road through the pass. "Well, well, well-Hello Maude," she said as she keyed up a hand-held radio. "Sprout to Bean-Do you copy? OVER," she said quietly.

"Bean to Sprout-GO. OVER," her radio replied.

"Two Maudes are digging in on the pass road. No through traffic yet-Stay tuned. OVER," she reported.

"ROGER, Sprout. Keep us posted. Bean OUT."

"So, what's up with the Bean jazz?" Tony asked-Nobody had told him.

She smiled ruefully. "That's Psych-War stuff. The heads-in-the-rear," she chuckled at her humor, "want to know the effect of stand outs on the enemy-How they react to something out of the ordinary. They held off repainting ALFA to see how it affected the sand fleas."

"That doesn't make much sense," he mused. "An olive drab vehicle in the desert. They can see it for miles."

"One thing we've found is that the GLA mindset makes them suckers for decoys," she stated. "They'll fall all over each other to attack that _damned _thing. When ALFA was first delivered, Avery and McMahon took it out on a check ride and came back through the installation with two Technicals hot on their heels. They ran with them following all the way past 3rd of the 1st before a platoon of Paladins wasted them."

"The thing is," she continued, " we worried that the fleas would catch on-That the Green Bean's luck would run out, but it hasn't. There's even a list of volunteers who'd crew it, for God's sake." She shook her head in resignation. "They're nuts. They even have a Toxin Tractor rodeo with it-You know that? _Hell, _just paint it like all the rest…" She looked away, she'd run out of things to say.

Now Tony understood her passion. "Hmm, maybe your concern is not with the Green Bean, but with the Green Bean's driver?" He raised an eyebrow.

She smiled shyly and looked up at him. "Yeah, guilty as charged."

* * *

"Yo, we've got movement," Tony's voice broke through her revery. "It's not the Maudes, they're still dug in."

She watched three Technicals lead nine Scorpions in a column-of-twos down the grade. The hoods of three Quad Cannons, these were mounted on half-tracks instead of farm trucks, appeared around the bend at the ridge's crest. They waited until the tanks had assembled on the desert floor before descending the slope.

She keyed her radio and whispered, "Sprout to Bean-COPY? OVER."

"Bean to Sprout-GO. OVER."

"Number one two units staging. Number three plus units on the way. This is it. COPY? OVER," she reported.

"ROGER. COPY. Crusader One minus ECHO on ALERT. OUT."

She sat back in the shade of the awning rigged between three rocks and took a nervous sip of water. "Remember all that crap they told you about desert warfare at your Indoc. Briefing?" Seeing his earnest nod, she continued, "Forget it-All of it. Class is now in session. Your ears are _open_-Your mouth is _shut,_ _got it_?" Another nod, not so earnest this time-The kid was learning.

The radio crackled to life, "FAC 3 Oh 33rd-First Crusader minus ECHO, engaging numbers One Five BANDITS eastbound. TALLY HO. Bean OUT."

She ignored FAC's reply. Turning to her spotter, she said, "This is it. Grab the bloop-gun and concentrate on the Technicals and the Quads." Hefting her M-25, she turned back. "And for God's sake, watch the friendlies, huh?"

"Right, I'm on it," he said, dropping a grenade into the launcher and snapping it shut.


	3. T Minus 8:00 Counting

Tony's first grenade landed squarely in the bed of the lead Quad-Cannon, wrecking the gun and igniting a box of ready-ammo that caused the driver to swerve left into the path of the next vehicle in line. Before the drivers could regain control, both Quads were shredded by a tremendous blast.

Rachel was impressed. Her spotter's first grenade, designed primarily as an anti-personnel munition, had eliminated two dangerous enemy vehicles. It also revealed the presence of an unexpected threat-Suicide bombers. Though Pathfinders were trained to counter the threat of 'bombs that walk', she'd never had to face one. _Where are the damned hummers? _She wanted to know.

As she watched from her high perch, two Technicals peeled off from the group and headed her way. They were still out of range, so she had a few short minutes to get ready. The remaining pick-up led the Scorpions south, toward the last known position of ALFA and BRAVO.

She caught her spotter's attention by wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "Here's the op'," she told him, pointing out the enemy approaching. "Those two trucks are carrying bombers around toward CHARLIE and DELTA's position. Take the path down to the landing and cover them, as well as the path up to here." She paused to look out over the desert again. "I'll pot as many as I can from here and move to the upper landing to cover you. Keep them away from the tanks-Whether they try to set satchel charges or blow themselves up, _keep them away_," she said, slapping his back. "Now, _move out._"

He hefted the grenade launcher and turned away.

She looked up at the sky and rolled her eyes. "_Tony… _your _rifle_," she said, failing in an effort to keep the exasperation from her voice. The look on his face as he slung his M-25 over his left shoulder and checked the bloop gun's safety made her regret her flash of temper. "Hey… keep your head down, huh?" She hoped he'd understand.

He did. "Yeah, I'm on it," he replied, making an effort to smile-It almost worked. He ducked his head and took the path leading down.

* * *

It took him almost ten minutes to get to the lower landing-A clearing lined with sandbags overlooking CHARLIE and DELTA's position. He set his rifle and a box of grenades down in the corner and took a good look around. CHARLIE was dug in right under his position, he could see clearly over the tank's turret. DELTA was about twenty meters to his left.

The only sound he heard was the muted purring of CHARLIE's Auxillary Power Unit (APU), sometimes called Little Joe by the troops. He sketched a salute to Lt. Jackson, who was lounging in the turret hatch, monitoring his radio. The Loo touched an index finger to the right temple of his helmet in return.

When Tony looked down at the tank again, its commander beckoned him over. When the Pathfinder managed to climb up beside the turret, he leaned over and asked, "What's up Dixon? You're on an awfully long leash aren't you?" He knew that Tony was a new replacement.

"Yes _sir_," he had to restrain himself from saluting formally. There was no use telling enemy snipers who was in command. "Rachel… umm, Corporal Magliore sent me here to cover you. GLA bombers are on their way. They're setting up just to the west and they'll be here any minute. I'm to cover the right side. The corporal will be on the upper landing, _sir_," he said, pointing to the shelf above his assigned position.

The rattle of small arms fire caused them both to look to the west. The lieutenant took a quick look around. "Right, carry on, son-Keep your head down," he said in dismissal. He stood up in the hatchway and keyed his intercom. "OK, Numbnuts," he addressed his driver. "It's all clear. Fire it up."

The Crusader's twelve-cylinder diesel engine rolled over twice, caught, ran roughly for a few seconds, and then smoothed out. The process repeated itself when DELTA started up a few moments later. A cloud of blue-black smoke blew away to the east on a wind that occasionally kicked up a thin dust-devil.

* * *

The sniper rifle, model M-25, an accurized version of the M-14 battle rifle, was known for its clean trigger let-off and Corporal Magliore's was better than most. The extra time spent on honing the sear had paid off-The trigger broke like a glass rod at four pounds.

The RPG Trooper ringed by her telescopic sight dropped as her auto-loading rifle's bolt closed on the next round. Any other sand flea that picked up that rocket would get it as well-You could take that to the bank.

The Rebels were getting smarter. She couldn't hit them if they were flattened against the cliff wall under her and that's where they were. A look through her periscope showed them working their way around to the east, where the tanks were. She shook the hand-grenade box and could have kicked it across the clearing in frustration-It was empty.

Two Technicals, with 30-caliber machine guns mounted in their beds, were holding position at just over three hundred meters, covering the advancing Rebels. Whenever she raised her head, the machine gunners would toss a burst of fire her way. The bullets chewed at the rock ledge she was on, but did no real harm-The angle was too high. They were just trying to keep her head down.

She'd started down the path to the upper landing, when the thumpf sound of a bloop round firing turned her around. "_Dammit_ Tony," she cursed through gritted teeth. _So, I've got another cowboy hero to break_, she thought, her anger barely in check.

Her anger turned to surprise as a grenade impacted in the bed of the nearest truck, killing the gunner and rupturing its gas tank. The driver and a Rebel in the cab jumped out before it was consumed by fire.

She shot the driver before the flat sound of a 40mm shot-shell reminded her that Tony was exposed. The second Technical had turned and charged toward her spotter's position. Its gunner fell after she snapped off two quick shots, causing the driver to stop in a dusty, four-wheel slide.

The gunner's replacement mounted up and the driver got rolling again. Tony's next grenade looked like a miss-It landed in the truck's dust-clouded wake, but it bounced up and a second detonation killed the gunner and wrecked the gun, sending it spinning away into the desert. Tony'd used a jump-up round.

_The boy done good, _Rachel exulted. She stood up, grabbed a box of spare 40mm grenades for Tony's launcher, hefted her rifle, and took the path down to the lower landing.

* * *

When she got to the lower landing, she set the box of grenades beside the one already there. The tanks were here, their engines rumbling like contented cats, but Tony wasn't. Her worry mounted as she took a long look around. _Where in the hell is he? _she thought, as if there wasn't enough to worry about already.

The spotter answered her unspoken question when he backed cautiously around the rock wall and sprinted up the path. When he saw her aiming at something behind, he dodged to the left and squatted near CHARLIE's right flank.

Her rifle spat twice-Two shots left two dead Rebels. Tony'd heard that MD was good, damned good, here was proof. Her second shot triggered a shattering, yet useless blast as the bomber's vest detonated.

Taking advantage of a lull in the action, he ran up the incline to the lower landing, set the launcher aside, and picked up his rifle. "That set 'em back, now…"

"You done sticking your neck out?" she interrupted, disgusted by his foolishness. "Save the heroics for the movies. We are all going home. Do you read me, _private_?" she snarled. Not waiting for an answer, she slapped her rifle with an open palm and ran up the path to the upper landing.

"Yes ma'am… by your command," he smarted off and turned to set up his position.

* * *

"Load High Explosive Anti-Tank… Target RIGHT-Scorpion," Lt. Jackson intoned as he tweaked the focus on CHARLIE's optical gunsite. The crippled GLA version of the Leclerc L-35 jumped into focus. Upon hearing the solid thump of the breech locking and his loader's cry; HEAT'S UP, he took one last look through his sight and said, "OK gunner, weapon's free."

His gunner verified that his bore sight was on target, stepped down on the gun's safety, called out, ON THE WAYYY, and pulled the trigger.

The GLA tank was blotted out by a cloud of sand that blew away to reveal a smoking wreck. Its turret jumped into the air and bounced off a tank close beside it, bending its gunbarrel, putting it out of commission as well.

"Yo, two for the price of one," the gunner remarked.

"Load HEAT… Moving target LEFT-Scorpion," Jackson's voice was business-as-usual. "Tracking left, lead-plus three."

As his commander tracked the turret, the gunner went through his litany and fired, scoring a direct hit that stopped the enemy tank in its tracks.

* * *

She was once again in the Buzzard's Nest. Tony had things in hand below, so she'd jogged up the trail to find the hummers. She could see them far to the north-west. The Bean was hard to miss. It and its sister BRAVO were in a foot-race with three Scorpions. The enemy tanks were falling behind, but didn't break off the chase.

_Pity-No Toxin Tractors today_, she mused. _Oh well, let's do a Scorpion rodeo, _she though sourly. What she saw next made her sit up and focus her spotting scope on the racing Humvees; "What the hell are you clowns doing?" she cursed at them. They were slowing down, allowing the slower tanks to catch up. Her stomach lurched when they opened fire on the first GLA tank to get there. After scoring hits, the two separated and ran further west, away from the two remaining tanks.

The sound of Crusader cannon fire drew her attention back to the here and now. _Memo to self, Idiot! _Her thought was unkind, unforgiving. _Fragmentation grenades… Don't leave home without… _A shattering blast from below and to her left interrupted the thought.

Through her periscope, she could see GLA troops in single file, hugging the rock wall below her position. They were, once again, on the move. "Round two… here we go," she muttered in resignation. The trip back down the path seemed longer, much longer.

* * *

"CHARLIE, this is DELTA. OVER," Lt. Jackson's radio came to life. It was their sister tank parked twenty meters to the east. "DELTA, this is CHARLIE. GO. OVER," he replied.

"Loo, did you notice those sardine cans aren't popping? They're just smoking... Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'? OVER."

The thought had occurred to him. The GLA was sending decoys-Tanks with just a few rounds of ammo and orders to hit and run back. The question was; What were they trying to hide? Jackson keyed his radio. "Roger DELTA, I am," he agreed. "BREAK... ALFA, you on the net? OVER."

"ALFA hears you, OVER." The Bean was almost out of range, his transmission was barely readable.

"ALFA, it's time to go home. Bring what's left around to us two hundred meters south. COPY? OVER." The break in radio procedure was a message in itself-They would try to draw the enemy into an an ambush.

"ROGER. ALFA copies. Two hundred meters south, two cans following us. OUT."

The lieutenant had to smile. _God love 'em. These kids are something else. They've got __guts. _He keyed his intercom. "OK Numby, let's roll." In answer to his driver's question, he replied, "Why… west, young man, head west."

* * *

She was half way down the path when the clatter of tank tracks told her that her platoon was on the move. Their clatter rose to a buzz as they accelerated away from the protection of the rock walls. A cloud of dust raised by their departure hung in the air obscuring their position. The wind would soon take care of that, though.

Tony was lying prone on the lower landing, his eye glued to a spotting scope he'd set up, concealing his position by piling sand bags over and around it. When she hailed him, he looked up at her, the question plain on his face. He had no idea what was going on.

She kneeled beside him, never taking her eyes from the enemy's last position to the west, just past the wall. "We're setting up an ambush," her lowered voice wouldn't carry far. "The Scorpions and the remaining Quad are to the north-west. The Bean is drawing them up this way." She looked into his eyes to see if he was really listening-He was.

"There's a company of Rebels and RPG Troopers on the far side of that wall." She pointed with her eyes. "Stay out of sight and keep the blooper handy. We wait 'til the tanks come back. If the sand fleas try to come up the trail, we fight, but only if they find us."

"Got it," he replied, wondering how she'd gotten over her anger so quickly.

She put a hand on each of his shoulders and again looked into his eyes. "No one-man-army stuff right?" she said, they were almost nose-to-nose. "We are _all _going home, OK?"

It finally dawned on him. "Right, no one's left behind," he told her retreating figure. "Hey…" That got her to turn around. "Thanks, you're the only one who's told me that."

"Yeah," she replied with a look that was far away. "Keep your head down, I'll be watching and I write a mean FIT-REP," she warned.

* * *

The GLA Rebel was there. Tony didn't see him move up, but suddenly, he was just there watching. After a few moments, he was joined by another. They stood silently, not moving, their dun colored clothes blending with the sand where they stood.

Satisfied that the tanks were gone for good, they motioned to the others and moved into the lee of the rock wall, out of the wind. The foot soldiers moved in groups of two and three until Tony had counted twenty-five. They huddled in small groups and ate from shoulder bags and back-packs that each carried. They wore a variety of garb-no one was like the other. The only similarity was the assault rifle and bandolier of ammunition each carried. Despite their ragged appearance, their weapons looked well kept.

Five or six carried a shoulder-fired missile launcher with three rockets fixed to his back-pack. Tony knew what they could do to a tank or a less armored Humvee. They were his first priority when the shooting started.

Sitting off to themselves were four Suicide Bombers. Their vests, loaded with everything from dynamite to C-4 plastic explosive to small arms ammunition, were a dead giveaway. Experience had shown, they would run into a crowd of troops or even civilians and detonate their load to devastating effect. Command dictated that the bombers were Priority-One, but Tony wasn't so sure about that. He would take care of both the RPGs and the walking bombs when the time came.


	4. T Minus 4:00 Counting

"What cha' got Loo-tenant?" Burton's sudden appearance always surprised him, though he seldom reacted outwardly. This time, when he jumped, his CO grinned broadly. Keeping the troops on their toes was part of his job. Even when they were out in the field, like here in the desert mountains of the Great Ridge, the commandos of 1st Pathfinder-3033rd didn't know when Captain Burton would make a surprise appearance.

"The GLA have done a real job this time, captain," the pale-faced tribesman replied. Leading the way to the northern edge of the bluff, he pointed to the desert floor and continued, "The only way we found it was when the wind got under a corner to the north-west. Before they could tie the netting back down, lookouts spotted the cab of a mobile launcher." He pointed to their left. "All the welding and fabrication must be done. There's nothing bigger than human bodies warmer than the ambient. Nothing we could see. Even the engines are cold. No heat bloom under the net at all. I see that as good news. Quiet time is my guess."

Captain Burton lowered his high-powered monocular and switched off the IR detector to save battery power. The presence of far off heat blooms told him that GLA defense force vehicles were arrayed in an arc to the east and west of this well concealed missile installation. "Quiet time… gives us a chance to get organized. Any idea what they're using for power here?" he asked. Quiet time could stretch out between two to ten or more hours. During that time, the missiles would sit idle. At the end of quiet time, the cradles would be elevated skyward and the missiles would launch one after the other until all nine were airborne. If the missiles were not destroyed, maybe they could be disabled.

"Not sure… yet, sir," his lieutenant replied, "maybe power lines buried in the sand or a few generators here and there… it doesn't take much to raise the missiles and light up the boosters. Right now there's nothing running here. We've got some time. I don't think the sand fleas even know we're here yet…"

A ranger in desert mufti stepped up and cleared his throat. "Message… sirs-Priority one," he said, looking back and forth between the two officers. He then passed his PDA to Burton. "Addressed to you, captain. It's in code."

"What now?" the CO grumbled. He carefully read the text, his face growing more thoughtful. When he'd tapped out a reply on the tiny keypad, he passed the data-link back. "Well men, did you feel any change? It seems that the weight of the world has just settled firmly on our shoulders." He now had both the messenger and his lieutenant's attention. "Particle Uplink Cannon #2 just went down… indefinitely. # 1 will help, but it won't be enough. It's now up to us."

* * *

The soldiers from 1st Battalion were no-nonsense. After parking their Command Humvee outside, they wasted no time unloading their package-A long flat case with hinges along one side and latches on the other. Three cans of 50 caliber small arms ammo went with the delivery. These, they carefully set aside under a bench in the small armory repair shop squeezed into an unused corner of the 3033rd's War Factory.

They left as quickly as they'd arrived after getting a signature from the armorer on duty here. Feeling the press of time, he unlatched the case and went to work checking out the rifle.

"It's in pretty good shape for a salvage," the armorer commented to the Crew Chief who'd come to collect the package. "It's a real Frankenstein… none of the serial numbers match. It's got parts from three different rifles. But it works as advertised. I couldn't make it break. Too bad I couldn't light off a round or two…"

"So, what's new?" the Crew Chief, a grizzled aviation sergeant, interrupted. "You think we rate the front line stuff? We're damned lucky to get this spare."

The armorer nodded sagely, he knew the score. "So, sarge, who're you taking it to? Any idea?"

"Avery and McMahon have whiskers enough. They'll probably get it. They're in theater," he said, picking up one end of the case, while the armorer picked up the other. " 'Maggy' and Dixon should've. Even though he's green as grass, she's got a helluva lot better score than Avery. She outshot him with both 30 and 50 caliber. Trouble is, she's out rodeoing with the Green Bean crowd, got tangled up with the sand fleas to the west."

"Oh well, them's the breaks," the armorer commiserated, picking up the ammo cans and stacking them in the Humvee next to the rifle case.

The two lost no time locking up the shop and ran their cargo across the compound to the waiting helicopter.

* * *

"Don't it bother ya that Maggy outshot ya twice in qualifying now?" Jimmy's question was a lame attempt to get a reaction, any reaction. His partner had been oddly silent since summoned by a messenger about an hour ago. The last time Del'd acted like this was a month ago when his girl wrote him a letter breaking off their relationship. It took a week before he'd gotten a word from the corporal.

Del looked at his watch, a Rolex Oyster that was his pride and joy, and stood abruptly. "Pack everything, Jimmy. We're movin' out in fifteen minutes," he said in a distracted voice. With that he turned and rummaged in his rucksack like he was looking for something important.

Jimmy stood slowly and started collecting his gear. "Are you gonna tell me what's goin' on, or do I have ta guess?" Being left out was a new experience to him.

His friend's reply was so unlike him, it was cryptic, "Remember the saying, be careful what ya wish fer?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he said, "I'll brief ya in trans't. I _can_ tell ya now that we're to meet a chopper at the south tunnel exit as soon as we can git there. Ya ready? …Let's go."

* * *

They were in a cleared area that had once been a stinger missile emplacement. A square of sand colored canvas staked between two huge boulders kept them out of the sun and away from prying airborne eyes. Jimmy couldn't believe their good luck. As far as he was concerned, they were the king-of-the-hill. Del just saw it as more work. They'd set up their 50 caliber sniper rifle on a high perch overlooking a GLA Scud missile installation north-west of the 1st Battalion. The netting that covered and concealed the installation was still in place-They had some time before the launch.

Two fellow Pathfinders, one to the west and one to the east of Del and Jimmy's long rifle, were there to provide flank security as well as cover fire for Captain Burton and two of his helpers, who would be placing demolition charges on the missiles themselves.

* * *

Tony snapped awake. Cat-napping wasn't forbidden, it just wasn't a good idea. Coming down from an adrenalin rush always made him sleepy. A look at his watch confirmed he'd been dozing for about forty minutes-Enough to refresh him, but not enough to slow his reactions. He wished he had a com-radio, but batteries were in short supply. Only his team leader, Corp. Magliore, carried one. She'd be in touch with their platoon, two Crusader tanks and two Humvees some twenty kilometers to their south. They were engaged in the ambush of a GLA Motor-Platoon sent to test the 3033rd's defenses.

The enemy infantry group, numbering twenty five Rebels, RPG Troopers, and Suicide bombers all told, were still here where the tanks had been just two hours ago. They were dug in in an arc facing the open desert to the south where the tanks had run to. To Tony's relief, they hadn't shown any interest in the ledge he was on or the Buzzard's Nest above him.

He was dozing off again, when the sound of an RPG booster lighting up woke him. The round arced up and out over the desert. The rock wall on his right prevented him from seeing if it hit or not. The concussion of the grenade was the only sound that followed, it was probably a miss.

The 40mm HE grenade seated firmly and he released the blooper's safety. The Rebels were quiet for a moment, giving him pause about triggering his weapon. Rachel was still on the ledge above him, he was sure of that, but her rifle hadn't spoken yet… He waited.

* * *

Lt. Jackson opened his hatch, letting in a breath of relatively cool air. A Humvee, painted desert tan pulled up beside and its driver looked up with relief. "It's over, Loo. Have you seen the Bean?" During the battle they'd lost touch with each other in the smoke and dust.

The Bean had made a run towards the Buzzard's Nest to pick up the Pathfinders when an RPG had driven them off. They made an end-run to the west to throw off the GLA. There was no need to tell the enemy where they were.

"They ran to the south-west, so the fleas'll be looking for us in the wrong direction." The CO had dismounted and leaned against BRAVO's roof. He raised an eyebrow and whistled, "You gettin' a little close, corporal?" He took a minute to look at the scarred side panels that were covered with scorch marks and bullet pocks. "What's that going to do to your insurance premiums, son?" he asked, shaking his head.

BRAVO's driver and its crew grinned. They looked so young to the Lieutenant. "Right, sir… we're the last ones standin'," he said to cheers from inside. "Besides…" his face was now serious, much too serious, "Our life insurance is _PAID UP!_" He bumped fists with his TOW-Gunner amid more cheers.

"Well done troops. Carry on. …and stay out from underfoot," he admonished, knowing the rivalry between tankers and their RECON units. They cheered and jeered in return as Jackson mounted up and plugged in to the Crusader's com-link. Switching to his radio, he said, "First Crusader CHARLIE to Sprout, OVER."

When he heard two clicks on the net, he replied, "We haven't forgotten you. Hang in there. CHARLIE, OUT."

Two final clicks told him all he needed to know. Corp. Magliore had heard him.

* * *

So far, the night watch had been uneventful. Except for the sound of wild life here in the western desert, nothing moved. Jimmy was off-watch, curled up on a bed roll in the lee of two boulders leaning together like long-lost friends, catching up on his much-needed sleep.

Del's look at his Rolex told him it wasn't much later than when he'd last looked-00:30 Eastern Desert time. With a sigh, he buried the wrapper from a granola bar and took a swig from his canteen. He couldn't shake a nagging feeling that the sand fleas were about to start their day. A slow scan of the GLA's missile installation and the area around it was the same; Nothing moved. No heat blooms on his night scope. There wasn't even a security patrol circling. Where were they?

His partner was dead to the world. The boy could sleep anywhere, anytime. It was a gift that the corporal wished he had. Jimmy should've relieved him thirty minutes ago, but Del let him sleep on-He'd need it.

A faint heat-shimmer in his night-scope drew his attention. A minute tweak of the focus knob brought the image up clearly. In spite of the other-world colors, a cloud was growing on the far-northern side of the installation-A heat bloom. Could it be one of the mobile launchers starting up, or was it a generator? He wasn't sure. Keying his radio head-set, he quietly called in a SIT-REP.

After getting an acknowledgement, Del went over his rifle and the emplacement one more time. It was all set. "Good mornin' James," he shook his spotter's shoulder. "It's showtime, son. Shake a leg."

* * *

He stood up and unplugged his headset. "It's all yours, Mac." The off-duty controller didn't want to linger. He had barely four hours rest before manning a missile console at the Strategy Center. "You got the picture? It's all clear for now. The SCUDs are still in quiet time." He slapped his friend on the back. "You're in the hot seat now-Stay sharp."

The replacement plugged in and sat in the swivel chair. He made a swift adjustment and settled in. "You know it," he shot back. "Where is First Crusader?" he asked after taking a quick look at the tactical plot screen.

"They're about thirty klicks west of here. Their Pathfinders are isolated at the Buzzard's Nest," he said with some concern.

"Can we recall them? What about the big push?"

"They're okay," he shrugged. "The snipers are under cover. The fleas don't even know they're there." he paused to think. "It's all in the log there. I'm relieved?"

Mac tried to smile. "You're relieved, now get out." This time the smile worked.

* * *

Second Crusader, as the roving security platoon, had a mess to clean up. A group of GLA Rebels had been caught trying to set charges to disable PUC #1. It seemed like they'd appeared out of nowhere. ALFA and BRAVO's 40 mm shot-shells did their work in short order, leaving six corpses for the Americans to clean up. Just as they were finishing up, an alert tone on their command-net radio called them to action stations-The GLA's big push was on.

ALFA's driver looked up after he'd started his engine. "Hey sarge, don't those damned fleas carry more than the three satchel charges we found on 'em?" He looked out his window into the darkness. "What if we interrupted them before they finished?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm with you," the non-com replied. "Let's swing by puke two on the way in." He reached up to key his head-set radio, but before he could say a word, three bright flashes followed by three flat-sounding cracks from the north confirmed their suspicions.

When they rounded the corner formed by two power stations, they could see that the lights were out in PUC #2 and the control cabin was a shambles. The satchel charges had done a good job.

* * *

Some-one was there beside him. Tony snapped awake when a voice he knew intoned, "It's just me, Dixon. Be cool!" It was Rachel. "I just sneaked up to the 'Nest," she whispered. "The big push is on. IR shows a big… a really _big_ column coming through the pass and my damned radio is out. Sit tight and wait. When I fire, give the bastards all you've got… _got it_?"

He tried to swallow. "Got it," was all his tight throat could manage.

She swatted him on the back. "Okay," she smiled. "See ya on the other side."

* * *

"At ease… be seated." The general entered and made his way to the command chair, a station centered in the room with a view screen and communications port close at hand. His XO, Col. Parker, stood close-by, looking thoughtfully at the tactical display, ready to update his boss on the latest moves of the GLA in their AO.

"Morning Rob," he said, setting his coffee cup on a side table. "What's up?" He raised an eyebrow and scanned the busy room. Around the walls were radar consoles and camera-drone monitors set to watch key areas the 3033rd was responsible for. Each was manned by a trained army specialist. Their evaluations and input were presented at the bottom of the general's view screen.

"Good morning, sir," he returned. "I called you when word got to us from Burton's group. The SCUDs are powering up. They started about thirty minutes ago. Synching Burton's assault with the Particle Cannon is done, but there's… a hitch, sir." He pointed to the top of the display at the western pass.

The general pushed a button and zoomed the pass in closer. "Damn," he whistled. "That's some column. Can you give me some numbers, Rob?"

Parker looked up from his PDA. "Yes sir, total count is twenty-two mechanized units. Of interest is two Mobile SCUD Launchers, four Marauder Type-IIs, those have twin 95 mm rifles, and six Quad-Cannons on half-tracks. The rest are an equal mix of Scorpions and Technicals. The Scorpions have HEAT and surface-to-surface missiles, and the Technicals are armed with 30 caliber AP if our intel is up-to-date."

"And our defenses? Is Alert One still out?" He looked up from the Status Report at the bottom of his screen.

His XO looked away. "First Crusader's Pathfinders are hemmed-in by GLA infantry at the Buzzard's Nest. They'll have to stay put for the time being. Last we heard from their CO was they were going south to meet up with the Humvees in an ambush. They've been out of radio-contact since then. Tactical shows them just south of the western pass. The big push may be jamming their com-links."

"So, we're short one platoon, colonel?" he asked.

He had a ready answer; "I talked to Capt. Hewes, he's at the Strategy Center now, and he's confident that the three remaining platoons of armor and our missile sites can hold a first wave…" He looked around the room, collecting his thoughts. "Sir, we may need to consider diverting fire from the SCUD installation to the column. Do you think Burton's group can neutralize the SCUDs?"

"That, Col. Parker, is the sixty-five dollar question." The general shook his head and sat back in his chair.


End file.
